The Adventures of Diggeldy Dan

Now, usually the very first thing one does after taking a tumble is to scramble up again. And that is exactly what Little Black Bear was of a mind to do when the rock on which he was standing turned over and he suddenly found himself sprawling almost at the feet of the great bear who was at work in the clearing. But he did not recover himself before the one with the hammer had taken full account of his plight.

“Tacks, jackplanes and drawshaves, and what is all this!” roared that ponderous party, as he put his arms akimbo and gazed in astonishment at the mass of curly black hair that lay there before him.

“Why—why, it’s just me come to call,” sputtered Little Black Bear, as he winked and blinked from his place on the ground.

“That’s quite plain to see,” the other agreed, in a voice that resembled nothing so much as thunder. “But gluepots and gimlets, what is the notion of prostrating yourself in this humble fashion. For I assure you that I am neither a prince nor a king but merely a hard-working carpenter.”

“Oh, that—,” Little Bear repeated as he finally got to his feet, “Oh, that wasn’t my notion, sir; it was just the rock’s. You see it kind of rolled out from under me.” And he explained the happening in so droll a manner that the big bear laughed so loud and so long that the forest fairly echoed in answer.

“There, there, forgive me,” he finally said, as he wiped the tears from his eyes with the top of his cap, “but you surely cut a most comical figure. And now, though it may be none of my affair, let me ask just what it is that has brought you.”

Thus encouraged, Little Black Bear told his story as to just who he was, whence he had come, and what it was that he sought.

“Well, well, now that is indeed interesting,” the other exclaimed. “My name’s Shagg—Shagg, the Carpenter—and I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.” With that he extended a paw, the two shook hands and then, at Shagg’s suggestion, they sat down at the foot of the tree that stood near the bench.

“So you are a circus bear. My, what a lot of wonderful places you must get to see. I’ve often thought it would be splendid to leave the forest and travel into the world. But then there is Mrs. Shagg. And there are the things to be built.”

“Why, I should think this would be the jolliest kind of a place,” rejoined Little Black Bear. “I can’t imagine anything quite as interesting as building things. Have you always been a carpenter?”

“Ever since I was old enough to handle a saw and a hammer,” answered Shagg. “You see carpentering, and especially chair-making, has been the family trade for quite a long time; in fact, ever since the days of the Three Bears.”

“The three bears,” said the other. “The three bears—why, you surely don’t mean the very Three Bears!”

“To be sure,” answered Shagg. “What is so unusual about that?”

“But there’s been books and stories and everything written about them!” cried Little Black Bear in rapt admiration, “about them and Goldilocks, you know.”

“Goldilocks—hum—Goldilocks,” mused Shagg. “What a piece of good fortune came to our family when she broke those beds and chairs. For—so the family tradition goes—it was in mending them that Great Big Bear found he had a knack for handling tools. That very same summer he built an entirely new set of chairs. Then he got to making things for the neighbors and now—why, just look here.”

And going to the doors that were made from small trees, Shagg swung them apart and so disclosed a deep cavern that extended far into the side of the mountain. There, inside, were whole dozens of beds with inviting looking rocks for mattresses, many massive chairs and no end of footstools to match.

“My, what a lot of them!” marveled Little Black Bear. “Do you sell many?”

“Well, not at this time of year,” explained Shagg, as he closed and bolted the doors. “Most of the bear families are too busy vacationing and roaming about through the forest during the summer to have much use for furniture. But as autumn wanes and they begin to think of the long winter nights when they will sit at home sucking their paws and drowsing before the fire, I’ll tell you the thought of possessing a big roomy chair and a footstool is a highly pleasing one. And, though I do say it, no one makes better furniture than Shagg, the Carpenter. Why, with anything like care, and provided the owner isn’t a terribly loud snorer, one of my chairs will last all of two winters. But, of course, there are snorers that will loosen the joints of the best chair that ever was made.”

And so he rambled on, telling no end of interesting things until, chancing to glance up at the sun, he sprang to his feet.

“Screws and screw drivers!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea it was so late.” And he hurried back to the bench. “You see I always aim to build at least one chair every morning. Would you care to watch me work?”

“Oh, I’d love to,” answered Little Black Bear.

“Ever use a saw?” the big fellow asked as he busied himself at the vise.

“Goodness, no. I shouldn’t know how to begin,” answered the watcher, as he climbed to a seat on the far end of the bench.

“Well, just remember this, then,” instructed Shagg, as he gave the vise-handle an extra hard twist, “if you ever do use one—or any tool for that matter—don’t hold it too tightly. That’s nearly always the trouble with beginners. They just grip for all they’re worth and try to do all of the aiming. But what I say is—let a saw alone. Give it something like a free head and it will follow the line most every time.”

“Why, it’s the same way with guiding a bicycle,” chimed Little Black Bear. “I know when I first began to ride in the circus I used to grip the handle bars like everything, but—”

And so—having become fast friends—Shagg and Little Black Bear visited on through the hours, their voices mingling with the song of the saw, the ring of the hammer, and all the happy sounds that came to the clearing from the depths of the forest below.

Little by little the morning advanced. Little by little the shadows crept nearer the rocks and the trees. Little by little the thing on the sawhorses became more like a chair. And then, just as the last touch was added, the soft hum of noontide was broken by a voice that came from neither here nor there nor, for that matter, from any particular direction at all.

“Shagg—ee! Shagg—ee!” it called in an odd, muffled note that seemed very near and yet far away.

“All right, mother! Coming, mother!” roared Shagg as if in reply.

“Hurry, then, before the dinner gets cold,” again called the voice, and this time Little Black Bear realized that it came right up from the ground.

“Indeed, we will,” declared the big fellow as he put down his hammer and untied his apron. “Come, now—”

“Oh, thank you very much,” protested Little Black Bear, “but really, I have my lunch right here in my paper bag.”

“Nonsense!” insisted Shagg, “why mother wouldn’t hear to me leaving you up here. So come along with you.” And leading the way to the far edge of the clearing, Shagg uncovered an iron ring, raised a heavy trap door, and the two descended a well-worn flight of winding stone steps until they came to a great, rugged room that was almost as broad as the clearing above.

It required but a glance for Little Black Bear to see that the place in which he so suddenly found himself was a cave. There to the right was what had once been its entrance but which had at some time or other been turned into a window—a window that was framed with trailing wild roses and through which he could see the trees of the forest and the bright green of the grass underneath. On that side of the cave that was across from the stairway rose a huge fireplace and in front of it—her back turned toward them, and slowly stirring the contents of a very fat and very round pot that hung over the flames—bent Mrs. Shagg.

“Mother, this is Little Black Bear; I have brought him down to dine with us,” said Shagg.

“Why, isn’t that fine, now,” cried she, coming forward. “Indeed, young sir, you are most welcome. You will find the spring over in the corner, should you care to wash. It won’t take me a minute to put on an extra bowl and then we’ll sit right down.”

As she hustled about, laying another place at the big wooden table that stood in the middle of the cave, Little Black Bear thought he had never met any one with such a white cap and apron. He just positively knew there never were any starched quite as stiff and as straight nor adorned with such beautiful bows. Indeed, he had hard work in trying to tell whether the merry crackling sound that now and then filled the room came from the apron or the fire on the hearth.

“Hurry along with the both of you, now,” called she, as Shagg and Little Black Bear returned from the spring. And soon they were all three at table. Little Black Bear had never before seen such lovely dishes—beautiful iron ones and so delightfully black. Of course there was porridge—three bountiful bowls of it—and a deep dish fairly overflowing with honey. As they ate they talked, the guest telling many stories of the circus and a great deal about Diggeldy Dan, the Pretty Lady, and of Spangleland.

“Now, goodness, do eat your dinner,” Mrs. Shagg kept saying. “Shagg, do help Little Black Bear to some more of the porridge.”

Dinner over with, Shagg and Little Black Bear drew their chairs back from the table so that Mrs. Shagg might clear the dishes, and this gave the visitor more of an opportunity of looking about. Along the sides of the cave were a number of chairs, all with very high backs, and, between these, no less than a dozen quaint chests with corners of brass and handles of iron. On the walls of the cave were many big frames fashioned from bark and each displaying subjects of a most interesting kind. One pictured a wide-waisted hogshead labeled “Molasses”; while another showed a huge honeybee drawn many times larger than bees really are and bearing the title, “The Bears’ Very Best Friend.” In fact, Little Black Bear thought all of the paintings in excellent taste and quite in the style that one might expect to find in the dining room of almost any bruin.

At the back of the cave was a stout wooden door which somehow or other wore a mysterious look. Eyeing it closely, Little Black Bear was just going to ask as to where the door led, when, glancing at Shagg, he saw that the big fellow had gone sound asleep. Next he discovered that Mrs. Shagg had done exactly the same thing in a comfortable rocker that stood near the fire.

“Well, well,” said Little Black Bear to himself, “if that’s to be the way of it, I, too, shall indulge in a nap.”

So, twisting about until he had got himself into a quite snoozy position, he was just on the point of closing his eyes, when there, among the wild roses, appeared a pink-frocked little girl with long yellow curls. Even as he watched, she placed her two hands on the window, and then, softly raising it, stepped into the cave.